


Lotus-Eater

by AsheRhyder



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams vs. Reality, Ensemble Cast, Expendable Extras, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Oh No What Happened To Jesse, Pining!McCree, That's Not How Science Works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: Only Jesse McCree would have the ridiculously bad luck to be abducted by a mad scientist during a mission.In the aftermath, the line between dreams and waking blurs and distorts. Which holds more weight; the flawed reality, or the perfect dream? Which is worth fighting for? Which will hurt him worse?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Almost forgot to thank my long-suffering beta, Poptart! @PoptartsUnlimited was very gracious and helped make this fic happen.

Only Jesse McCree would have the ridiculously bad luck to be randomly abducted by a mad scientist during a mission. The villain isn’t even part of Talon; later investigations reveal the man had been immediately dismissed as a delusional fool by every intelligence, counterintelligence, and private security agency in the world. Not that it stops the rogue Junker from clocking McCree over the head with a wrench and dragging him off. 

Hana, for one, is never going to let him hear the end of it. 

“They didn’t even take his communicator!” she says as her MEKA shoves open the door to the supposedly secret lab. “This whole thing will take less than an hour.”

“Don’t complain about an easy retrieval,” Soldier growls, sweeping in and checking for resistance. 

“I’m just saying this is either the most unprofessional bad guy I’ve seen outside of a movie set, or it’s a really dumb trap.”

Hanzo personally agrees with her, but keeps his opinion to himself and follows Soldier’s lead. 

The lab itself looks like something Junkrat might construct while drunk and blindfolded. Wires run everywhere from unidentifiable boxes with blinking lights and illegible readouts on cracked screens. McCree is one of five bodies laid out on tables with strange circlets around their heads. Despite the drying blood, he’s in the best condition of them. The “scientist”  stands by a large beeping machine, one hand on a comically oversized dial. 

“So Overwatch has come at last to interfere with my plans,” he cackles. “No matter! There is nothing you can do--”

“Hanzo. Hand,” Soldier grunts. Hanzo obliges, putting an arrow through the madman’s outstretched hand. He drops with a hysterical scream. 

“What  _ is _ all this?” Symmetra wrinkles her nose, picking her way through the mess to reach the captives. “There is no order to this at all.”

“My masterpiece!” grates out the bleeding scientist. “I, Master Morpheus, have unlocked the secrets of the mind!”

“Please tell me he’s not going to monologue,” D.Va groans from her position guarding the door. “Also, “Master Morpheus”? Lamest call name  _ ever _ .”

“What the hell is this crap supposed to do?” Soldier demands as he advances on the self-proclaimed Master Morpheus. 

“I am the creator of a new reality! My machine generates a world of dreams from which no one can awaken--”

There’s a soft groan, and everyone turns their heads to see Hanzo leaning over McCree’s table with the ridiculous headset in one hand and an assortment of electrodes in the other. The cowboy shifts and moans again as he starts to come around. 

Soldier looks skeptically back at Master Morpheus, who shrugs. 

“I’m still in testing phases. This is what you get when you interrupt clinical trials!” 

Hanzo glances down at McCree, whose dark eyes blink open slowly but focus quickly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, setting the equipment aside. 

McCree smiles, warm and wide. Hanzo has never been the recipient of that smile before. It’s one he’s only seen the man give to people he’s known for years. 

“Never better,” McCree says. And, before anyone can do anything else, he pulls Hanzo down into a kiss. 

 

That’s another first for which Hanzo is completely unprepared. 

 

 

The short version is that Master Morpheus’ machine somehow constructs a “lucid” dream world to trap the dreamer using subconscious information to make a more realistic scenario. 

The long version is pretty much the same, only interspersed with more technical jargon and frustrated swearing because as far as anyone can tell, it shouldn’t work. 

“Junker tech,” Junkrat explains with a shrug. “Half our stuff’s only good in our own hands.” 

“And the other half?” Soldier growls. Junkrat grins and glances hungrily at the somehow functional electronics. 

“Blows us up too. Hehehehe.” 

McCree watches, eyes half-lidded and without a word, while Hanzo busies himself on the other side of the room, trying to help Master Morpheus’ other victims. None of them are as responsive; one man bursts into tears and a woman nearly sucker-punches the archer before curling in on herself and trying to go back to sleep. 

“Don’t you start, too.” D.Va jabs him in the ribs with the keychain on her blaster. “You’re in enough trouble already.” 

McCree just hums. 

“Hey. Hey! Stay awake, McCree. What day is it?” 

He pauses. 

“No clue,” he admits, “but then I never did pay much attention to the calendar back then, did I?” 

“Back when?” D.Va grabs his chin and tries to check the evenness of his pupils. “Soldier! I think he needs a biotic field!” McCree sighs and rolls his eyes, but his smirk betrays his amusement. 

“Alright then, Missy, you tell me what day it is,” he drawls. 

She tells him. McCree’s face doesn’t show any surprise or dismay, but there’s a sudden lack of vitality that makes his smile seem a little thinner, less genuine. 

“What day was it in the dream?” she asks quietly. 

He tells her. 

 

Every generation develops a talent for discerning when their predecessors are lying to them. It’s at its keenest in early adulthood, before the shine of youthful idealism fades into the same patina of compromise that everyone swears they won’t make. It’s how Hana can tell, without any one piece of evidence, that McCree is lying to her. 

“McCree,” she says, watching him watch Hanzo. 

“It was just a dream, junebug,” he says. His tone and unwavering gaze do little to convince her. “Just a dream.” 

 

 

Overwatch leaves just before the local authorities and emergency services arrive; Athena sets a watch for any updates on the other victims, but there’s still a mission that’s waiting for them to return from their detour. McCree seems fine at the time, capable and confident despite his head wound. 

By the time they finish, the whole event is little more than an amusing anecdote: “hey, remember how McCree got abducted by a mad scientist with a shoebox full of cords and almost made us late to the objective?” Of no consequence to anyone except Hanzo, who glares at everyone who mentions his unwitting participation in McCree’s rendition of Sleeping Beauty. Genji laughs for five minute straight when they tell him. Hanzo eventually storms off because every time his brother seems to stop, Genji looks at him again and starts afresh. 

McCree’s attention slides away from Angela’s concerned questions and follows the archer out the door. 

“Angie,” he says abruptly, “I’ll let you poke, prod, and scan me to your heart’s content if you gimme just half an hour to go settle something.” Angela sighs. 

“I will hold you to that, Jesse McCree.” 

Jesse heads for the kitchen. 

 

Meditation does not come easily to Hanzo. He can sit still and look serene, but it’s merely a mask that disguises constant turmoil underneath. Anyone who studies him close enough can see the tension in his shoulders, the unbending pride to his neck, and the stiffness of his jaw that announces he’ll put an arrow through anyone who comments on either. Jesse regards these signs silently, then carefully maneuvers to the edge of Hanzo’s personal space. Hanzo can hear the scrape of leather and wool as he moves, the soft clinking of metal from his spurs, belt buckle, and prosthetic, as he sets something down and eases backwards. Hanzo cracks open an eye and sees a steaming mug of tea. He looks up sharply at McCree, whose bashful smile never falters. 

“Sorry about the whole surprise wake-up thing,” McCree says. His tone is apologetic. His gaze is… not. Not exactly. The intensity and complexity in his gaze twist him up inside, uneasy and warm.

“I understand the device… disoriented you,” he says diplomatically. “You are not at fault, save for the inattention which put you in the situation in the first place.” 

McCree’s smile curves into a smirk. 

“Harsh, darling.” The endearment slips out of his mouth easily, well-practiced. It’s never been directed at Hanzo before. He flinches, and McCree’s expression falls. Hanzo looks down at the tea. 

“You need not attempt to buy your way into my good graces,” he says. “Especially not with this.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” McCree sits forward, frowning. “Three-fourths full tea infuser, steeped for four minutes, no sweetener or cream, right?”

A sharp chill shoots through the back of Hanzo’s skull. 

“All that is accurate,” he says slowly, “but this is black tea. I switch to green after 3 PM.” 

“Well, damn.” MCCree huffs. “Sorry about that, then.” His shoulders slump as he removes the offending beverage. 

“How did you know…” Hanzo stops, breathes, and rewords his question. “How did you know how I make it?”

McCree rocks back onto his heels and stands. Even with the change in angle, Hanzo can’t see his face to get a proper read on him. The ridiculous cowboy hat throws too much shadow over his eyes. 

“Shoot, it weren’t nothing,” he mumbles. “Guess I just seen you do it enough that it stuck.” 

Hanzo possesses years of training and experience parsing deception and half-truths from his conversations, and even if his people skills are somewhat rusty, he catches the shape of McCree’s deflection in between his casual air and dismissiveness. It’s not a lie, but there’s an omission there, and those are usually just as bad, if not worse. And yet he finds himself struggling to put the accusation into words. It clashes with the sincerity and simplicity of the gesture. 

McCree tips his hat. 

‘I’ll get you some green, then.” 

“You do not have to.” Hanzo protests in vain; McCree is already walking back to the kitchen with the same determined stride that carries him into battle. 

Hanzo retreats to his room before McCree can return. 

 

 

For a while, things seem… normal is a relative term for a vigilante justice organization, but the world continues to turn, and the fight goes on with neither significant progress or loss. Overwatch holds the line against Talon and Vishkar’s less savory elements. 

Then Reaper takes the field, and “normal” pulls back the covers to reveal the cracks underneath. 

“Look out!” D.Va yells over the comm. “Tank-buster! My MEKA is down!” 

“Backup incoming,” McCree replies. 

“I will cover you,” Hanzo adds.

Reaper catches a few of D.Va’s pistol shots to the chest and wraiths through the rest of the clip, descending like a nightmare as she frantically reloads. The mercenary draws fresh shotguns as he solidifies, only to take a flashbang to the face. But McCree doesn’t follow up with his usual fan-the-hammer. Instead, he lunges forward and tackles Reaper to the ground. 

“McCree!” Hanzo hisses. “Move!” 

“Hold still, old man,” McCree grunts, trying to best superhuman strength with mortal muscle and raw grit.

“Get out of the way!” D.Va tries to aim around him, but McCree is as broad as her target and refuses to budge. 

“What are you doing, cowboy?” Reaper purrs. “Finally rotted your brain under that old hat?” 

“What are  _ you _ doing, Reyes?” McCree grins back. “Playing boogeyman enforcer for trash like Talon?” 

“Better a boogeyman than a toy soldier,” Reaper sneers. “Tell me, where are they going to leave you when they’re done with you?” 

“It’s not like that this time around,” McCree winces as something in his prosthetic grinds unhappily under Reaper’s resistance. “Reyes, please, listen to me--” 

“It’s  _ always _ like that,” Reaper snarls. Behind them, D.Va’s new MEKA lands with a  _ whump _ , and she leaps up. 

“Are you seriously trying to recruit him?!” she demands. 

“Reyes--  _ Gabriel _ \--” 

Reaper lets out an inarticulate growl and turns into shadow, dropping McCree to the ground. D.Va opens fire as the darkness moves, but it slips away down an alley and disappears. Hanzo drops down and hauls McCree to his feet. 

“Have you lost your mind?” he hisses. “What were you thinking?” 

McCree inhales sharply, deep and ragged. He drags his hand across his face. 

“I was thinking of how great it’d be if if we didn’t have to face Reaper on the other side of the field again,” he grumbles. 

“And you thought appealing to him would be effective?” 

McCree sighs, shoulders slumping even as a rueful smile tugs at his lips. 

“Well,” he says, “he didn’t shoot me.” 

 

Debriefing is a nightmare. D.Va reports. So does Hanzo. McCree… McCree doesn’t report as much as he mutters to himself, three-quarters incoherent without context and one quarter after-action without the action. 

“McCree!” Soldier finally snaps. “What the hell happened out there?” 

McCree stiffens and takes a moment to relax back into his usual indolent posture. 

“Guess I ain’t ready to give up on him yet,” he says. Morrison mirrors McCree’s earlier tension, fist clenching on the table. 

“I didn’t take you for the stupidly optimistic type.” 

McCree’s mouth splits into a defiant grin, the sharpness of his eyes making it almost feral. 

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks and expect him not to wag.” 

Morrison stares. 

“What?” 

McCree scoffs and stands to leave. 

“Don’t worry about it, old man,” he says. “I ain’t about to turn on y’all. I’m just doing what Winston’s always on about and fighting for a future that could be.” 

“McCree--” 

But McCree is already out the door, and Morrison no longer has the authority to discipline him. 

 

Hanzo finds the cowboy in a side hall just a few minutes later, leaning against the wall and once more murmuring quietly. It’s only when he hears Athena’s replies that he realizes McCree isn’t talking to himself. 

“It is 7:33 PM, Agent McCree,” Athena says. “The date is Thursday, June 18th, 2076.” 

“Thanks, doll.” McCree sighs. “Right. Gimme a quick status check.” 

“All on-base personnel are in good condition,” she reports. “Off-base agents report no complications at this time.” 

“Good, good. Hanzo’s doing all right, then?” 

There’s a brief, questioning pause in which Hanzo steps back out of sight before Athena answers, “Agent appears to be reasonably well.” 

“Right. Good.” McCree nods absently, scrubbing at his face with one hand. “What about Gabi and Kirie?” 

A longer, diplomatic pause follows, and McCree’s shoulders knot back up. 

“I am sorry, Agent McCree.” Athena says as gently as a computer is able. 

“Shit. No, sorry, that one’s on me.” He sighs. “Can you just erase that from the log?” 

“I can, but please be advised that repeated requests to scrub data will be registered as unusual activity pending review.” 

“Oh yeah? How many counts as “repeated”?” 

“Three, excluding context of surprise birthday, holiday, or other special situations.”

“And what am I up to?” 

“Seven.” 

“Shit.” 

“I am taking your situation under consideration for the request, Jesse.” The use of the man’s given name is startling to Hanzo, as is the warmth of the artificial voice. 

“Thanks, Athena.” He takes a fortifying breath and continues down the hall in the opposite direction. Hanzo waits until the heavy footsteps fade away before stepping forward again.

“Athena?” 

“Yes, Agent Shimada?” Unlike her earlier address to McCree, Athena’s tone is purely professional to Hanzo. 

“Who are Gabi and Kirie?” 

“Confidential,” she replies crisply. “Also, it is rude to eavesdrop.” 

“You did not alert him to my presence earlier.” 

“ _ You _ did not leave.” Athena sounds more judgmental than the family elders from his memory, and he finds himself squirming like a scolded child. 

“Is he… well?” 

“Agent McCree is in full physical health according to the baseline parameters established by his reinstatement as an Overwatch Agent.” 

There’s a loophole there; Hanzo can see it clear as day, practically inviting him to pick apart the hidden message inside, but… 

It’s not his place. He barely knows the man, and even if he did, he doesn’t know what he’d do with the information. 

So he does nothing. 

Athena says nothing. 

 

Jesse makes tea. Distracted by the mysteries, Hanzo even drinks it. Jesse doesn’t stop smiling for days. 


	2. Chapter 2

McCree has a way of naturalizing absurdity. He’s so careful, deliberate and subtle, that his actions creep into normality unnoticed. He makes tea in the morning while still half asleep, casually dropping a cup in front of Hanzo on his way to the other side of the table. He slips nutritious snacks within Hana’s reach during her marathons and long streams, and she only realizes it when the chat asks about the guy in the hat in the background. He ropes Genji into “translating” the worst fansubs he can find of various anime, then arranges for even worse subtitled versions of other movies and convinces the other members of the team to join them in dubbing new dialogue and commentary overtop the badly translated versions. He sets requisitions for everyone’s favorite foods, discretely arranging the orders through Athena. Hanzo discovers this last part simultaneously with the revelation that McCree also reorders the kitchen after Reinhardt cooks to make it easier on Satya, the next person on the dinner rotation. 

“Add a case of those little grape drinks Hana likes, will you, doll?” McCree calls to the command console as he rummages through the cabinets. “She’s down to about half a case; ought to be near out by the time it gets here.” 

“Added,” Athena chimes. 

“Torbjörn could probably use some more of that weird licorice candy, too.” McCree hums and moves over to the spice rack, slotting jars into different positions. Alphabetically, Hanzo realizes as he watches. “Has Lena got Mei hooked on that bubble-chocolate stuff yet?” 

“Lena has not shared chocolate with Mei to my knowledge,” Athena’s tone is mildly reproachful, and McCree ducks his head but doesn’t lose his smile. 

“That one’s just a matter of time,” he says. “Anyone who likes sweets will love that. Put in a few bars, will you?” 

Athena pauses, radiating disapproval far too clearly for a computer screen. 

“Aww, c’mon doll. It ain’t gonna hurt anyone just to have it on base.” 

“Dr. Ziegler would say otherwise regarding the amount of “junk food” on the supplies list.” 

“That reminds me, see if you can’t add a bag of those apples she likes. Pink something or others.” 

“Pink Ladies. Added.” Athena says. 

“Think I could add  _ daifuku _ on there for Hanzo? Or will he get antsy about it?” 

It takes all of Hanzo’s years of experience and skill as a stealthy assassin to stay silent and motionless. Athena’s judgmental silence weighs on him. 

“I do not think it would be appreciated,” she says carefully. Hanzo steps back from the door, just in case. 

“Yeah, they probably would look a little suspicious.” McCree sighs. “Poor guy’s got enough stress without wondering if someone’s trying to off him by poisoning him with his favorite dessert. Just add the tea, then. Please and thank you kindly.”

“Both green and black?” 

“Yup. Same brands as last time. He ain’t complained about them yet. Gonna take that as a good sign.” There’s a rasp to McCree’s voice that grates on Hanzo’s nerves, some kind of weight between resignation and hope all twisted up together and jagged for it.

“Added,” Athena says primly. 

Hanzo backs away from the kitchen and resolves to pay closer attention to what it is McCree notices. The man’s eyes are uncanny.

 

“Should I be concerned?” he asks Genji later as they sit outside and watch the waves.

“About McCree poisoning you?” Genji scoffs. “Only with his terrible coffee.” 

“I am being serious!” he hisses. He has never tasted the allegedly awful coffee, only the adequate (he hesitates to call it actually  _ good _ ) tea. 

“As am I.” Genji shrugs. “If McCree had an issue with you, he would not resort to poison. Not when he could settle it with his fist or gun.”

Hanzo considers this information. 

“He is your friend. Has he always behaved this way?” 

Genji doesn’t answer right away. Hanzo waits him out. 

“I am sorry to say he was often a better friend to me than I was to him,” he admits. “In the early years, I was angry and unfocused. I am afraid I did not notice much about his behavior then. Only now do I realize how patient he was.” 

Hanzo tenses up at the mention of his brother’s anger; pride keeps his spine straight, but his blood is full of ice and acid. Genji nudges him before he can settle into a fugue. 

“From what I recall, nothing you describe seems out of character for him.” 

Hanzo hums and tries to reconcile his brother’s words with the uneasy memory of the cowboy’s actions. It refuses to sit easily; like a picture just a little bit too perfect to be real. 

 

McCree surprises him one day by setting down a wrapped box with his tea. Hanzo stares at it a moment before dragging his gaze up to meet McCree’s. He reads the man’s excitement and nervousness the wideness of his eyes and the tension cording the muscles of his throat. He looks back down at the package, which is wrapped in deep blue fabric printed with subtle, swirling silver clouds. 

“What is this?” he asks, examining the inexpert knot on the cloth. 

“It’s a present.” McCree’s smile is as fragile as glass, and it starts to fracture when Hanzo doesn’t react. “For you.” 

“Why?” 

“‘Cause I thought you might like it?” McCree’s usual confidence has apparently packed up and moved to warmer climes. Hanzo takes some mercy on him and unwraps the package. He stares down at a box full of colored inks and metal nibs. His brain goes blank, unable to process the objects. 

“What is this?” he repeats. 

“It’s a calligraphy set.” Jesse answers, but already sounds more like he’s questioning himself. “Y’know, because you and Genji were talking the other day… about… it?”

Hanzo wordlessly turns his stare from the box back to McCree. 

“You said you missed…” McCree looks down, and the sudden realization visibly slams into him. “Calligraphy. With the brushes, not the pens. ‘Cause Japanese-- damn.” He stands abruptly, face ashen, and he tangles his fingers in his hair. “Damn, sugar, I’m sorry. I don’t know where my head was. I’ll just. Uh. You can… just forget about this, okay?” 

He makes an aborted gesture to take the box back, winces at the unchanged expression on Hanzo’s face, and retreats instead. 

Hanzo sits in silence and tries to remember when he spoke to Genji about calligraphy. He draws a blank. He must have, he knows he has at some point, but he can’t recall a time when McCree could have overheard. Then again, until recently, he had little reason to notice. 

He has more reason to notice now, he thinks as he picks up the box. He puts it on a shelf in his room where it sits like a shrine to unanswered questions. 

 

 

McCree runs after Reaper on a mission outside of the castle at Eichenwald. He chases shadows down the lower halls of the old towers and across the field. The only warning Hanzo has to his intentions is the glimpse he catches of McCree’s trigger finger, flush against the barrel. 

“What are you doing?” he demands over the comms. “Do not move so far from the payload!” 

“Not now, honey.” McCree mutters back, and then his line goes mute. 

“McCree!” Hanzo shouts, then curses the cowboy as creatively as is humanly possible while under fire. 

“Can you cover him?” Soldier asks, maneuvering around to draw fire away from Hanzo’s perch. “I don’t like leaving him alone with Reaper.” 

“Understood.” Hanzo huffs and leaps for the stairs that lead down to the tunnels. His footsteps are soft on the smooth stone, allowing him to hear the harshness of the voices further down. 

“Please, Gabriel, don’t do this. Just come back with me. We can help you. You’re better than this.” 

“You’re delusional,” Reaper growls back. “And Gabriel’s dead, pup. Stop trying to tug at dead heartstrings.” 

“There are still people you can help--” 

“What makes you think I want to?” 

"There’s still people who  _ need _ you.” 

“What makes you think I  _ care _ ?” 

“You ain’t shot me yet.” 

Hanzo rounds a corner in time to see Reaper throw back his cowled head and laugh. McCree’s expression guards hope like a hand cupped around around a match to keep away the winter wind. His gun is drawn but lowered, finger most definitely off the trigger. 

Hanzo takes aim. The creak of the string immediately calls Reaper’s attention. Shotguns appear in his hands as he spins around. 

“No!” McCree yells, lunging forward. He wraps himself around Reaper and blocks Hanzo’s shots with his bulk at the same time. 

“Ingrate…” Reaper snarls, the only warning McCree gets before claws dig into his side under the seams of his armor. 

“Please--” McCree wheezes. Reaper responds by turning to smoke and melting into the subterranean shadows. Hanzo fires a sonic arrow after him, but the mercenary quickly flies out of the range of detection, away from the rest of the battle. 

Hanzo stalks over and glances at McCree’s wound. Blood sluggishly spreads across the fabric under the metal, but not so quickly or so much to cause immediate concern. 

“Come,” he demands, and he’s surprised when McCree rises to his feet with little more than a subdued nod. They head back to the payload, sneaking up the side of the bridge to flank the defenders at the gate. Hanzo keeps watch throughout the rest of the mission, but though the shadows seem to stir restlessly, Reaper does not return to the field. 

His absence seems to hearten McCree, who manages to smile and laugh off his wound as a careless mistake earned by over-eager flanking. Soldier stares him down, glaring harder as McCree omits his interaction with Reaper, but the cowboy never cracks. Soldier turns to Hanzo for an explanation instead, but Hanzo has none, not yet. What he has instead is a hunter’s focus, and his prey awaits. 

As soon as Lúcio has McCree patched up, Hanzo backs him into a side room to interrogate him. There’s a brief, pleased flush across McCree’s cheeks when Hanzo plants a hand on his chest to move him, but it fades as he notes the furious scowl that accompanies. 

“I demand an explanation,” Hanzo hisses. “You have repeatedly endangered yourself and the mission chasing after Reaper and making appeals to him.” 

“I told you, honey, I’d rather be fighting  _ with _ him than  _ against _ him.” 

Hanzo pushes harder, enough to back McCree up to the wall. He leans up so that he can look the man in the eyes. 

“I will tell Soldier exactly what you both said,” he threatens. “Your courtesy to me does not excuse you from your responsibility to the team’s safety.” 

“Courtesy?” McCree laughs, trying to deflect. Hanzo bares his teeth and gives him another shove. 

“McCree.” 

McCree regards him carefully but quickly, skimming over his face like the pages of a familiar book. 

“Promise not to flip out?” 

Hanzo blinks. 

“Flip out?” 

“I mean it, Hanzo. You gotta promise not to overreact. It sounds bad, but I promise it ain’t.” 

“I will react a proportionate amount to what you say.” 

McCree sighs and flashes a smile both tender and longing before he composes himself. 

“Remember a couple of months ago when I got… how’d you put it… disoriented?” 

Hanzo nods, wary. “Are there… lingering effects?” 

McCree snorts and drops his chin down to his chest. The shadow of his hat turns his eyes dark and distant. It ages him decades in an instant, and then he looks up again, full of rejuvenating hope. 

“I lived another life,” he says. “In the dream, I mean. It was-- it wasn’t the future, ‘cause I went through all the days ‘tween now and then, but I lived a good long while, and these are… those were good times.” 

Hanzo’s blood freezes in his veins. 

“Another life?” 

“Reyes -- that’s Reaper -- came back to us. It was a turning point. He’s a good fighter, a good teacher, and he brought everything he knew about the different terrorist cells to us so we could use it against them. He’s-- he  _ was _ \--” McCree shakes his head, exhaling sharply before steeling his nerve. “Reyes was like a father to me, and if there’s any chance I can get him back… If I can get any of that world back…”

McCree’s eyes burn with fire enough to instantly evaporate the ice clinging to Hanzo’s bones. Hanzo recoils from the heat. 

“It was a dream,” he says. “It was not real.” 

“I know that.” McCree’s expression crumbles. “I  _ do _ . Honest, Hanzo. I know it ain’t real, but there are parts of it that could be if I try.”

“It was only a dream,” Hanzo insists. “You jeopardize the mission and the entire team for some figment of your imagination!” 

“My imagination’s never been that kind to me,” McCree mutters. “Look, I  _ know _ Reyes. He wants to be convinced he can come back.” 

“You have no proof--” 

“I got blood proof.” McCree points to the stain on his shirt. “He coulda got my liver or my lungs from the angle he was at, but he went for a flesh wound that wouldn’t even keep me out of the fight. He coulda shot me at any damn time, and he didn’t. That tells me all I need to know.” 

Hanzo hesitates. McCree would know the man better, and his argument is, for their lifestyle, somewhat sound. Still, the desperation that hollows his voice triggers all sorts of warnings in Hanzo’s brain. He doesn’t know the proper name for it. He’s spent too long ignoring it in himself to put words to it, and he doesn’t want to meet his own gaze in the mirror to try and decipher it anyway. 

“It was just a dream,” he says again as if repeating the words will somehow help. McCree’s expression crumples. 

“I know,” he says. It sounds like a Pyrrhic victory. “I know." 

 

 

Hanzo tries to discuss it with the rest of the team. He really does. McCree’s fixation on recruiting Reaper is dangerous to himself, to Overwatch, and potentially to everything they’re trying to protect. 

Soldier doesn’t seem to sense the same gravity when he explains McCree’s desire. McCree’s “evidence” that the terrifying mercenary wants to be brought in holds surprising weight with the old soldier, and even Ana looks thoughtful when she hears of the gamble. Hanzo wonders if explaining the dream that inspired it would give them more cause for caution, but his warning refuses to take shape. Every time he tries, it transforms into a different fear, a bigger one, as vast and inconceivable as the abyssal ocean. The scope beggars imagination. An entire life in the course of a dream, detached from time and real enough that the weight of its memories warp McCree’s actions even now. Hanzo remembers the soft, intimate smile and the kiss that followed it with a mixture of longing and apprehension: longing for the illusion of comfort it offered, and apprehension for the implications behind the gesture and McCree’s hungry eyes. 

And oh, how those eyes follow him. Before, he wasn’t looking. He has no idea how long McCree has been watching him like he’s the first green shoot after a long winter. There’s wishing in that look, and wanting, but also weariness. Sometimes, for no discernable reason, McCree looks like it hurts him to watch. There’s no pattern: once when Hanzo puts his hair up, another time when writing a sign to remind the team to cover or re-seal their open drinks in the fridge, twice when Hanzo does a backflip in training, and one more time when they’re just sitting together in the rec room and listening to Hana and Lúcio bicker over what to watch. 

 

“Is it unwelcome?” Genji asks, noticing his brother’s distress over McCree’s attention. “If it is, simply tell him and he’ll stop.” Hanzo finds himself fumbling for words to describe a feeling like seeing a fin in deep water. 

“I do not think he means it,” he says. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he hasn’t made the right point. Genji snorts. 

“Sincerity is probably the last thing you have to worry about with McCree. He will not follow anything in which he cannot invest himself fully. This much I recall from our Blackwatch days.” 

“That does not help,” Hanzo protests. “I mean that I fear he has misconceptions about me.” 

“What is there for him to misread?” Genji says lightly. “You train and brood and talk with me. You hardly put yourself below the harsh light of celebrity, brother.” 

Hanzo growls in frustration and turns away. Genji, sensing he’s pushed too far, puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Just talk to him,” he says more soberly. “He is a good listener. If his actions disturb you, he will stop.” 

“Will he? Truly?” 

“He will.” 

 

Hanzo finds McCree alone on the roof. September fades into October under a cloudy sky thick with the scent of impending rain. He expects it will start before the day is out. 

McCree manages to catch the soft footfalls that betray Hanzo’s arrival, but he doesn’t turn from his vigil over the waves. 

“Hey there,” he says. Warmth drags his voice down to its lowest register. Hanzo shivers, and it’s only partly due to the intimacy implied by the tone. 

“McCree,” he says, “We must speak.” 

“I’m all yours.” He turns with a smile. 

Hanzo winces at the choice in words. McCree sees his wince and likewise the smile drops off his face. 

“That is… part of my concern.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

Hanzo feels his resolve melting in the face of McCree’s earnest attention like wax in the hot sun. He can question and deliberate on his own, but the man’s sincerity burns. In contrast, the first drop of rain lands on the back of his neck, an icy warning. 

“Your dream,” he says, and he watches McCree’s expression cloud. “You spent a long time there?” 

McCree licks his lips and draws a long, slow breath before nodding. 

“Yeah,” he confesses, and it  _ is _ a confession because Hanzo can hear the guilt there. “You could say that.” 

“How long?” 

“It’s not important. I know it was a dream.” 

“How long?” 

“Hanzo--” 

“ _ How long? _ ” 

“It doesn’t matter.” McCree insists. “You don’t want a dayplanner of where I was and when.” 

“And you know what I want?” 

“I reckon I’ve got a pretty good idea, yeah.” 

“What is it, then?” 

McCree stares at him, unblinking, for six seconds. His dark eyes reflect no light. 

“You want to know what we were to each other,” he says. “Why I kissed you.” 

Hanzo nods stiffly. Rain starts to fall in earnest, saturating their clothes, but they take no notice. McCree breathes deep, and Hanzo realizes there’s no cigar in his mouth. Suddenly, he can’t remember when he last saw the man smoke. 

“We were a lot of things,” McCree says. “Most of them good. Sometimes not so good, but we tried, and that mattered. We were happy.” 

“Happy?” 

“We learned how to listen to each other. When to talk, when not to. And before you laugh, yeah, I can keep my big yap shut when the occasion calls for it.” 

“I was not going to laugh.” 

“Well, not this time.” McCree shakes his head. Water flies off the brim of his hat. “You like to laugh when I do things you think are ridiculous but they still work out.” 

Hanzo is fairly certain he doesn’t. Mostly. Really. 

McCree tilts his head back and blinks into the rain. 

“It rained on our first real date, too. I was trying to be all fancy and romantic for you. Made a picnic up here. Got unlucky and fell into that 33% chance of precipitation. I was so mad, I swore up a storm of my own. You laughed and told me I looked like a half-drowned dog barking at thunder.” 

Hanzo agrees with his dream-self’s assessment, a realization that both amuses and startles him. McCree takes his silence as some kind of signal and slowly steps forward. He reaches out. He takes Hanzo’s hand and gently entangles their fingers. Hanzo hears his pulse roaring in his ears. 

“You, of course, looked beautiful in the rain.” McCree murmurs. “You still do. We danced together in the rain, and you laughed at me, and it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Happiness is a good look on you, sweetheart.” 

“I--” words suffocate him, drowning him in a dozen different thoughts. Why would McCree say that? What would it look like to be that happy? What would it  _ feel _ like? He can’t even imagine it, why can McCree? Does he even deserve that kind of happiness? Such a thing doesn’t even exist--

McCree is nearly flush against him, close enough that Hanzo can feel the man’s heat. He hums a little song as he sways, pulling Hanzo with him an a vaguely dance-like motion. 

“Honeybee. Sunshine. Heart o’ My Heart.” He rumbles, barely audible. “I know you ain’t happy yet, but give me a chance--” 

**_YET._ **

Hanzo jerks back violently, shoving McCree away at the same time. 

“No!” he snaps. He feels momentarily guilty for the look of raw confusion and hurt on McCree’s face. 

“Darling?” 

“Not  _ darling _ .” The sharpness of Hanzo’s voice makes McCree wince and hunch over a bit, a  _ kicked _ wet dog. 

“Well, not yet, but--” 

“No ‘yet’, McCree!” Hanzo snaps. “Not ever. You are trying to pursue a dream.  _ It was not real _ . The feelings you have are not real. The things you have seen are not real. None of it has happened, and none of it will, because it was only a dream!” 

“I… Hanzo--” McCree keens. He reaches for him again, but Hanzo scowls at him, and he doesn’t step forward. 

“You must let go of this fake world,” Hanzo says. “I cannot and will not be a substitute for your dreamed up partner.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” McCree says softly, almost apologetic. “Honest, sweet--” 

Hanzo cuts him off with a shake of the head. McCree’s hand drops back to his side. 

“It was not real.” 

“I don’t need  _ that _ to be real. Just tell me, do you think you could ever--” 

“It was a dream, McCree.” Hanzo stands his ground, and eventually McCree nods. 

“I know,” he says, flat and lifeless. “It was all just a stupid dream.” 

Hanzo waits another minute to see if he will say anything else, but McCree remains as motionless as a statue. Even his breathing seems hidden under the haze of the rain. Hanzo considers saying something, a caution about staying out in the cold and wet, or against slipping on the stairs, but he fears undoing what little progress they have made, and he holds his tongue. 

Hanzo goes inside. 

 

McCree doesn’t follow. 


	3. Chapter 3

Despite expectations, nothing improves after their rooftop conversation. McCree stops watching. He stops bringing Hanzo tea and giving him warm, knowing smiles, stops making little inside jokes that no one else quite gets, stops stepping in to reorganize the kitchen and fill the shopping list. The atmosphere around the Watchpoint stagnates. 

Hana spends weeks trying to get reliable suppliers for her juice. Satya spends hours trying to reorganize the kitchen to her liking and glares at Reinhardt every time he cooks. Movie nights stall out without an organizer quietly pulling in new titles. No one else seems to realize the cause of these changes, but Hanzo knows. 

Hanzo knows because he notices how McCree disappears and only comes out for training or to scrounge the occasional meal, which he never takes in the canteen. Hanzo notices McCree’s reaction time is slower in training simulations, and that he sometimes hangs back or hesitates when he used to lead the charge. Hanzo notices that sometimes McCree stands off to the side, down another hall, murmuring to Athena when the others aren’t watching. 

Hanzo notices, but he doesn’t know what to do. 

 

 

A week and a half into November, McCree packs a small bag and heads off to the States. Agents come and go with some frequency dealing with the ties and obligations of their regular lives, but McCree isn’t usually among them, and such a departure draws attention. 

“Where are you going?” Hana asks, catching him at the door. 

“It’s Thanksgiving soon,” McCree explains with a smile stretched just a bit too thin. “You know. Turkey and football and family…” 

Jack looks up from his files, surprise hiking his eyebrows towards his hairline. 

“You still have living family?” he blurts out. Ana immediately slaps him across the chest, but tension already cords the muscles in McCree’s shoulders and throat. “I just meant he never reported any when he first joined up -- ow, dammit Ana -- if he’s still got family, we need to know to put surveillance out so that no one tries to target them -- ow, quit it!” 

McCree stares out the doorway. 

“No,” he says evenly, “it appears I don’t. But…” He rallies. “But there ain’t nowhere in the whole of Europe to get a proper deep fried turkey, so home I go.” 

And he quickly walks away without looking back. 

“Of all the fool things you could have said, Jack Morrison, that was one of the most thoughtless.” 

“I was just concerned about their safety.” Jack winces. “Our enemies have used our family against us in the past. Isn’t that why you kept Fareeha on base?” 

Ana just sighs and shakes her head. 

“For someone who used to deal with politicians, you certainly let your diplomatic skills slide.” 

Jack grunts. 

“These days I find helix rockets more effective.” 

“And would you use helix rockets on McCree?” 

Jack’s thoughtful silence is intended as teasing, but Hanzo has to wonder. 

 

“Athena?” he asks quietly, in private. 

“Yes, Agent Shimada?” 

“ _ Does _ McCree have any surviving family?” 

There’s a brief pause, so brief he almost thinks he imagines it. 

“Apparently not.” 

 

When McCree returns, he looks simultaneously well-rested and mildly ill. His sun-kissed skin seems pale, bruised with shadows, and his cheekbones are a little too sharp and hollow for a man who claims to have eaten Reinhardt’s weight in fried turkey. He gives everyone the same bright, brittle smile and leaves the room before their scrutiny can catch too much. The only time he pauses is to let his eyes linger on Hanzo just a second longer than they should, and even then he drops his gaze and disappears when caught. 

Which is fine. 

Everything is fine. 

At least until the next mission. 

Hanzo isn’t entirely sure what happens at the time. One minute he’s on his perch, providing cover fire for the ground team guarding the payload. Enemies push forward, engaging in the street and halting progress. Hanzo fires at one attacker and hears Soldier shout about another incoming on the right. And then… 

Hanzo takes careful aim towards the right. At the same time, McCree moves to follow the one retreating on the left but suddenly stops. A look of confusion briefly crosses his face, and then with grim determination he turns and goes after the one on the right. He manages to step directly into the path of Hanzo’s arrow, and the shaft sinks deep into his shoulder. 

McCree swears, empties his gun into the startled enemy, and sinks to his knees. 

“What are you doing?” Hanzo snarls, running to a new perch where he can better cover McCree until Lucio can get the arrow out. 

“You always go for the one on the right,” McCree hisses through gritted teeth. 

“Yes, I know, so why did you also turn right?” 

“You  _ always _ go for the one on the right,” he repeats. “Always did. I thought -- never mind--”

“Hang on, this is gonna make you feel better,” Lúcio breaks in. McCree chokes down a cry, then sighs. 

“All right,” he grunts, getting back to his feet. “Let’s move out.” 

“McCree,” Hanzo scowls. “This is not the end of this conversation.” 

“You ended the discussion first,” McCree growls back. “Let a sleeping dog lie, will you?” 

 

Hanzo tries to corner McCree again after the mission, but the man pulls his hat down over his eyes and goes to sleep before Hanzo even steps foot on the ship. He looms over the slumbering cowboy and debates waking him, but it would make a scene, and besides… 

McCree looks softer in his sleep. The tension in his shoulders eases, and the frown finally fades from his mouth. 

“Let him rest, man,” Lúcio says. “I don’t think he’s getting enough shut eye.” 

“If it is affecting his performance in the field, it should be addressed,” Hanzo replies, though he knows he has little room to make judgments about the quality of one’s rest. He sits down next to McCree so that he will not be able to sneak away when they land. What he does not expect is for his own weariness to lull him to sleep as well. 

He wakes warm. Sometime during his nap he slid sideways so that he leans against McCree’s shoulder. The wool of the serape smells faintly of gunsmoke and dust, but, he realizes, not tobacco. Hanzo tries to sit up, but McCree also moved in his sleep, and his head rests atop Hanzo’s in something resembling a cuddle. 

“Mmm, five more minutes, honey,” he mumbles into Hanzo’s hair. “I miss you something awful.” 

“McCree.” 

Hanzo can tell the instant the man wakes properly because he immediately stiffens. 

“Sorry,” he grunts, standing and walking away so quickly that Hanzo doesn’t even have time to grab him. “Won’t happen again.” 

“I am more concerned that it happened at all.” 

McCree winces, frozen in the doorway. 

“It was just a dream.” He shakes his head. “Like you said. That kind of thing can happen when you sleep.” 

“Do you return to it often?” Hanzo doesn’t mean to sound so sharp, but he sees the frisson run down McCree’s spine despite the man’s incredible effort to hide it. 

“Not often enough,” he mutters, and then, louder, “Please, Hanzo, just let it go. I’m trying real hard. Don’t that count for anything?” 

Hanzo’s throat closes up, and even if he knew what to say, he’s certain he couldn’t speak a word. 

 

 

McCree leaves again the day before the various winter holidays start to pick up. This time he departs with more discretion; Hanzo only knows because he stumbles past McCree’s door while the man is packing and talking to Athena about his plans. 

“C’mon, dollface, it’s just a vacation. Lots of people take ‘em to far more exotic and dangerous locales.” 

“Do these people have sixty-million-dollar bounties on their heads?” Athena responds. “Are their photographs regularly published in mass media? Do they wear easily identifiable clothing?” 

“I know how to lay low.” 

“Of course, Agent McCree.” 

There’s a pause to the noise inside the room, followed by a heavy sigh. 

“Aww, c’mon, Athena, don’t be like that.” 

“I am only able to be as I am, Agent McCree.” 

McCree makes a sound of such genuine pain that Hanzo finds himself taking a step towards the door.

“Athena, please,” he says. “Not you too.” 

“Ah. My apologies, Jesse. I did not intend to cause you distress with my banter.” 

“It’s all right, doll.” Sounds of packing resume. “Will it make you feel better if I take my comm unit?” 

“In so much as I am able to “feel better”, yes,” Athena replies. “Your comm will relay basic biometric data to me. In case of emergency, I can dispatch assistance quickly.” 

“You’re getting to be a regular busybody these days, ain’t ya?” McCree chuckles. 

Athena pauses. 

“It satisfies to have people to look after once again,” she says. “Winston is very good company, but I was designed to maintain operations for all of Overwatch.” 

“You’ll be busy again soon enough,” says McCree. His surety rekindles Hanzo’s doubt. Is it possible he’s convinced Athena of his delusion? “With the way Winston and Jack are running things, I reckon you’ll have a full house by this time next year.” 

Concern burns away, leaving only the shame of eavesdropping once again hot on Hanzo’s face and neck. He hurries away before he can misinterpret some other piece of innocent dialogue. 

 

 

Minor tensions begin to compound. Winston awkwardly juggles the rosters to try and keep the impending conflicts at bay, but there are only so many agents and only so long a body can stay on-duty. Satya stops talking to Reinhardt, who tries to switch rotation spots with Roadhog. She takes one look at Junkrat’s faceprint in marinara sauce on the ceiling and thereafter leaves the room whenever either of the Junkers enter. Hana snaps at Mei for taking one of her grape drinks, Zarya snaps at Hana for yelling at Mei, and Mei’s attempts to broker peace result in three inches of ice in the rec room. Jack misplaces his visor and then steadfastly refuses to admit he can’t find it. Ana equally steadfastly refuses to tell him where it is until he asks. It’s nothing the team can’t work through, but it's a stark contrast to the easy cohesion of a few months earlier. 

McCree comes back three days before the New Year and walks into Lena’s attempt to win people over to the idea of a party. 

“I’ll zip into town and get drinks,” she says, “and snacks and stuff for the people who don’t drink. Lúcio can play the music, and Satya can make a hard light ball to drop, and it will be lot of fun. What do you guys say?” She radiates earnest delight, to the point that even Lúcio and Satya are giving each other considering looks. A flash of excitement crosses McCree’s face before collapsing into resignation and then cool detachment. 

“Way too late to be planning a shindig now,” he says, crossing behind her. “Even a fancy rig like that ain’t gonna give you enough time to get it all in place.” He gestures at the chronal accelerator, conveniently taking his attention away from the hurt look on her face. 

“You don’t have to be such a pessimist about it,” she says. 

“I’m just being realistic,” he scoffs. “Even Reyes couldn’t plan a party in three days, and no one liked a celebration as much as he did. Hell, you only really even got two, ‘cause everyone’s gonna close early on the Eve.” 

“I bet I could,” she pouts. “Anyway, weren’t you on vacation? Vacations are supposed to make people relaxed and happy. How come you look like something the cat dragged in?” 

“I’m fine,” he answers tersely. 

“Really? Have you been sleeping all right?” 

“If he’s this grumpy? Probably not,” Hana narrows her eyes, and McCree throws his hands in the air and walks off before she can come to any further conclusions. In the wake of his temper, Lúcio and Satya purse their lips and turn away from each other. 

 

There is no New Year’s Eve party. 

 

 

According to the plan, the Dorado mission will be cakewalk. They have a well-balanced team: Soldier:76 and McCree on offense, Hanzo on defense, Reinhardt and Winston as tanks, and Mercy as support. They should be perfectly able to defend the power plant from the Talon forces trying to sabotage it. 

And for the most part, they do. Then McCree breaks away from the group to pick off a straggler before they can loop around to flank. Seven seconds later he comes flying back into the town square, bowled across the cobblestones until he hits the fountain. His head cracks against the stone. Reinforcements stalk out of the alley after him. 

“McCree!” Hanzo yells, releasing the dragons on the new attackers as Mercy flies to the fallen cowboy’s side. Golden light from the Caduceus staff returns some color to his face, and his eyes flutter open. 

“I’m good, I’m good,” he mumbles, unfocused gaze making a liar of him. 

“You most certainly are not!” Mercy says crisply. “Hurry, we must get you behind Reinhardt’s barrier so I may see the full extent of the damage.”

“Just keep that glow on me, angel food cake, and I’ll be right as rain.” He heaves himself to his feet. “You and the big guy, huh? We’re running Walpurgisnacht, then?” 

“What?” Mercy blinks. “Walpurgis--”

“All right. Heart o’ My Heart, gimme a sonic on that set of alleys in case we got more incoming. Reinhardt, push forward to the choke; Soldier, Reaper, get ready for Helicopter Parents right behind him if they try to rush.” 

Hanzo complies without thinking and quietly dies inside as he realizes what McCree said. Soldier isn’t so quiet. 

“ _ WHAT? _ ” 

Reinhardt and Winston exchange concerned looks. 

“C’mon, let’s push ‘em back--” McCree turns and sees the team staring at him. The blood drains from his face again, and he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Date. What’s the date? Athena--” 

Mercy tells him. McCree’s hand shakes. He breathes deep and raises his head as a new wave of enemies approach. 

“Fall back, McCree,” says Winston. 

“I can still fight.” 

“Yeah?” Soldier scoffs. “But will you be shooting the right people?” 

McCree bristles like a threatened animal, teeth bared and eyes wild. 

“I ain’t fired on the wrong side in forty-three years!” He snarls, winces, and then turns to Winston, pleading. “I’m still good to fight. I can’t just sit back and watch! You need me here!” 

Winston glances at the incoming wave and nods. 

“But if we say fall back, you fall back immediately,” he says. “And I’ll require a full explanation when we return.” 

“You got it.” McCree steels himself to face his future troubles. 

 

The fight passes in a blur of bullets, barriers, and bright lights from various abilities. Hanzo calls the dragons a second time. Reinhardt lines up an Earthshatter in time for Winston’s Primal Rage to throw half the wave back, and Mercy revives Soldier after he falls to an enemy sniper. McCree shoots wordlessly. The absence of easy going banter between his shots makes him seem more like a ghost than a man, a memory of action cursed to play out again and again. 

Eventually there’s no one left to try and overrun them. Overwatch melts back into the night, and by the time the local authorities arrive, all they find are the remnants of battle and the distant twinkle of the dropship jets. 

 

Seated at the table inside the ship, McCree doesn’t wait for questions. He’s a quickdraw. He knows the importance of controlling a scenario by acting first. 

“I ain’t crazy,” he says. His hands splay across the surface of the table, flattened to keep them steady. “I got everything under control.” 

“What’s this “everything” that’s under control?” Winston asks. 

“It was just a stupid dream. I know it wasn’t real. Just… got a little mixed up when I knocked my head.” McCree’s voice is as dull and inflexible as rusted iron. He speaks as if by rote, repeating a mantra he doesn’t believe.

“A dream?” Jack scowls. McCree stares at a point somewhere between him and Winston. He doesn’t blink. “How does a dream-- wait wasn’t there that mad scientist last year?” 

McCree’s fingers curl, squeaking across the tabletop. 

“It was just a dream,” he repeats. Hanzo feels a surge of acid clawing up his throat at the carefully concealed grief between the wooden words. 

“What did you dream, McCree?” Angela asks, but her gentle tone only agitates him. 

“Another life,” Hanzo croaks. All eyes turn to him; he refuses to shrink from the mix of confusion, concern, and in McCree’s case, outright betrayal. “He said he dreamed he lived another life.” 

Jack whips back around to narrow his eyes at McCree.

“So that’s why you started going after Reaper.” 

McCree says nothing. 

“What happened to you?” asks Reinhardt. Concern drags his normally boisterous roar down to a gentle thunder. 

McCree says nothing. 

“Jesse?” Angela touches his wrist. The tendons on his arm stand out starkly. 

McCree says nothing. 

“McCree, I need more information,” says Winston. “I need to know you aren’t a danger to the team.” 

McCree’s eyes lock onto him at that, whites nearly drowning the dark. 

“I ain’t, I swear, I would never--” his jaw slams shut as he reins himself in. “I got it under control. This was just a one-time thing on account of the head wound.” 

“A head wound is not a one-time thing in this occupation,” Angela says. 

McCree grits his teeth. 

“Perhaps there was some sort of situational catalyst?” Winston ponders. “If we can isolate the aspects of the subconscious construct that overlapped--” 

“Everything overlapped,” McCree says. “A'ight? There ain’t a trigger or anything that sets me off thinking about it. It was just like normal, everyday crap like what we’re doing now. Well, not  _ now _ , obviously, but there wasn’t any more saving the world than we do already. Damn, do I need a drink…” 

Involuntarily, everyone’s eyes go to the bottles on the shelf behind his head. 

“Shall I pour you one?” Reinhardt offers, but McCree shakes his head. 

“Don’t tempt me. It was hard enough to give up the first time.” No sooner than the words are out of his mouth than he looks like he regrets letting them slip.

“The first time?” Mercy leans in closer. “Jesse, did you stop drinking?” 

“And smoking,” Hanzo realizes out loud. “I have not seen you smoke in some time.” 

“Well of course I did! I wasn’t about to let our--” McCree swallows the rest of his sentence, turning the last word into an aborted howl. He tries again. “I wasn’t about to fall off the wagon just because I woke up.” 

“So you just… quit again?” Angela says, stunned. “Without assistance?” 

“Well, the detox wasn’t any fun, but I had practice.” He shifts uncomfortably. Mercy and Winston shuffle closer together, murmuring about brain chemistry and addiction. 

“You really just quit?” Jack asks as if trying to distract him. McCree glares and gestures expansively with his empty hands. 

“This whole inquisition would be a mite bit more tolerable if I hadn’t,” he growls back. 

“How long did that take?” 

“Long enough.” 

“Will you give me a straight answer for once?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it, all right? You ever think that maybe a man just don’t want to discuss the particulars of unpleasant times? These are some damn personal questions, you know. I didn’t even…” he takes off his hat and runs his hand through his hair, scrubbing at his face in frustration. “Hell. All this fuss over a stupid dream. None of it happened and none ever will.” McCree’s voice cracks a little at the end, and Hanzo’s breath turns to lead in his lungs as he recognizes his own words. He watches the man in front of him pull the cracked pieces of his composure back into place; the only tells to his distress are the grooves his fingers carved in the tabletop. 

“Be that as it may, I think for now we’ll have to take you off the active roster.” Winston stammers a little as McCree’s attention snaps back to him. “If that machine was able to subtly alter your brain activity so you were able to break your smoking and drinking, er, habits--” 

“The  _ machine _ didn’t do jack shit. I decided not to do them anymore.” 

“Addiction is a more complicated condition than it appears--” Angela starts, and McCree rounds on her next. 

“Addiction?! To the smokes, maybe, but not the booze--” 

“I should have taken the device more seriously from the beginning and not let the first clean scans sway me.” She shakes her head, undeterred. “I’m sorry, Jesse. I never imagined that it could have so deeply affected you.” 

“Don’t be sorry, just don’t take me off the roster!” 

“It’s not safe for you or for the rest of the team,” Winston insists. McCree casts a wild, desperate glance across the others, settling on Hanzo. 

“Not this too.” The desolation of his voice reminds Hanzo of the rainy October sky, cold water on the back of his neck and a chill that won’t quite fade hours later. “Hanzo, please. The mission’s all I got left--” 

Hanzo bows his head. McCree’s silence falls like an axe, dripping grief like blood. 

“We’ll start scans as soon as we’re back to base,” Angela promises him. “Don’t worry, Jesse. We’ll have you back to normal in no time.” 

McCree says nothing. 

 

 

McCree follows Mercy and Winston into the medical lab the way a condemned man walks to the gallows. He doesn’t look up or back, and Hanzo has to quell the inexplicable desire to reach out to him, to put a hand on his shoulder, and to tell him everything will be all right. 

 

Instead, he drinks. 

 

Genji finds him before he’s finished the bottle, pacing the roof where McCree once confessed in the rain. The sky is clear now, stars and moon bright above, but it feels just as sad. 

“I hear McCree is in medical and off active duty indefinitely,” says Genji. “What happened?” 

Hanzo opens his mouth, grimaces, and takes a swig of his drink. 

“McCree had a dream and is having trouble discerning the difference between it and reality.” 

“What, do you mean like hallucinations?” 

Hanzo laughs bitterly. 

“I suppose you could say that.” He stares down at his hands and remembers warmth around them. He remembers the press of long, tapered fingers against his pulse point. He shakes himself out of the reverie as Genji steps forward. “From what I understand, he dreamed a world very much like what is real only with a few key differences. In waking, he sought to make the dream into the reality, but such endeavors are folly.” 

“Why?” Genji asks. That single word shatters Hanzo’s calm, and the turmoil inside him ignites. 

“Because you cannot change a person’s heart on a dream!” he hisses. “Dreams do not save the day or redeem the wicked or make someone love you.” 

Genji tilts his head. He studies Hanzo the way a student studies an impossible problem. 

“Brother,” he says, “where do you think those things start?” 

Hanzo flinches. 

Genji refuses to relent. 

“Look around us. We are here to fight for a future that is not real, not yet. The redemption you seek - did it not start with a thought to be better than you were?” 

“It is not the same,” Hanzo insists. It sounds less certain than it did in his head. 

“It is action that makes ideas real. Did he dream, or did he act?” 

“Genji--” 

Enlightenment strikes the younger brother. 

“Ah, this is why you were worried about him misreading you,” he says. “So he loved you in his dream.” 

Hanzo glowers. 

“He loved an idea of me, not myself.” 

“Did he try to make you fit the dream, or did he make his dreams fit you?” 

“What does it matter? What is even the difference?” 

Genji stops him from taking another drink by grabbing him by the shoulders. 

“If he loves the idea of you, he will dismiss inconsistencies between the dream and the reality, and he will continue to pursue you as if you were the dream,” he says. “But if he makes the dream fit you, then it is not the dream he is after.” 

Hanzo thinks to McCree’s careful schedule of black and green tea, of the cheap-but-hard-to-find brush pens that McCree slipped him after the calligraphy incident, of the random candies that used to show up on base until he made the mistake of expressing his enjoyment of a particular type, after which that was the only kind to be consistently available. 

McCree not only accepted the differences, he embraced them. Enthusiastically. 

Until Hanzo shut him down. 

“It does not matter.” He slumps, elation plummeting like a hawk shot out of the sky.

“What? Why not?” 

“I told him I wanted no part of his dream,” Hanzo groans. “And even if he were to forgive my dismissal, he is no longer in a state to tell fantasy from reality.” He raises his head enough to look into Genji’s visor, letting the acid-green light burn his eyes. “Today he tried to command a team that does not exist using tactics we do not know. He called to Reaper as if expecting a teammate to comply.” 

Genji’s hands tighten briefly, but Hanzo’s gaze drops again, and the moment melts from disbelief to grief. 

“Angela will fix him,” Genji says, though even his faith seems shaky. “She can fix anything.” 

Hanzo bows his head and says nothing. 

 

 

McCree sits through three days of tests. Sullen to the point of silence, he goes where he’s told and holds still through the scans, the bloodwork, and two machines with unwieldy acronym names, the function of which he neither knows nor cares. He speaks only when necessary and stares off into the distance the rest of the time. 

He doesn’t, as far as Mercy can tell, sleep. 

“You need to rest,” she says. 

McCree stares. 

“It’s not healthy to go so long without sleep.” 

McCree stares. 

“Would you like me to prescribe something?” 

At that, McCree starts. He shakes his head and tries to smile, but the easy expression falls flat. 

“I don’t do so well with them anymore,” he says. His voice is rusty, roughened from disuse. Angela frowns. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll get some shut-eye if you do the same. You’ve been up near the same as me, angel food cake.” 

She hesitates, but this is the most lively he’s been since they started, the most like himself, and she doesn’t want to break whatever spell is keeping him that way. 

“Very well,” she says. “I’ll be just a call away if you change your mind.” 

She gets him settled before heading for the cot in her office.

 

A few hours later, her comm beeps. At first she thinks it’s Jesse, finally ready to ask for the pills, but then she sees it’s Hana, and a flash of panic shoots through her. 

“What happened?” she asks as she picks up. 

“So, you know those stories about sleepwalkers?” Hana asks nervously. “Are they true?” 

“Sleepwalkers?” 

“Yeah. Are you -- you know, not supposed to wake them up? Should they be allowed to handle sharp objects? Like, say, kitchen knives?” 

“Hana--” Mercy pulls on a robe and starts running for the kitchen. 

“Oh shit, I think he’s crying,” Hana whispers suddenly. 

“Who’s crying?” She has a bad feeling she already knows. 

“Maybe not crying, okay, no, he’s humming. It just sounds really sad.” Hana reports. “Okay. Um. “Happy Birthday” is a lot creepier coming from a grown man with a knife at four in the morning.” 

Mercy turns a corner and sees Hana peering into the kitchen from around the doorway. McCree stands at the counter. His broad back hides whatever occupies his hands, but the shift of muscle is proof that they are busy. As Hana said, he hums to himself, just a touch below tempo. 

“McCree,” Mercy says as she steps through the door. 

“Mmm-hmm.” He doesn’t stop. 

“McCree, you should be in bed.” 

“Mmm.” He rolls his neck. “Probably.” 

“Why don’t you put that down and leave it for tomorrow?” 

McCree snorts. 

“Ain’t missed a birthday yet,” he says. His voice catches in his throat and only comes out as a rasp. 

“Whose birthday?” she asks carefully. 

McCree puts down the knife. He turns around. His eyes are open, tired but tracking. He’s not sleepwalking. One of these days she’s going to have to figure out how he keeps slipping out of the medical ward unnoticed. 

“May 5th is Gabi’s birthday,” he says. “That’s today, right?” He glances towards the interface for Athena, who blinks online. 

“Today is May 5th, 2077,” she says, a little more reluctantly than the date should sound. McCree’s mouth folds into a grimace at the year. He turns around again and leans on the counter. Hana and Angela exchange wary looks, and then move in, one on either side, as his shoulders begin to shake. 

“McCree?” Hana asks. She leans around, just out of arm’s reach, but still close enough to see his face and whatever he was doing with the knife. She gasps a little at the roughly cut apple bunnies on the plate in front of him. 

“I knew it wasn’t real,” he grunts, “‘cause when I woke up I couldn’t cut the damn rabbits for shit. Didn’t care much about the smokes or the drink, but all of a sudden it was like I hadn’t spent fifteen years making the little bastards on a near daily basis. And I realized I never actually learned. Had to look it up on the net.” 

HIs eyes shine, suspiciously wet. Angela winces, adding up years and the bits of the story she’s put together so far. 

“Gabi is your child?” 

McCree laughs, harsh and hollow. 

“How am I supposed to tell them?” He hiccups and stares at the plate. “How am I supposed to go to sleep and see my kids and tell them they ain’t real? That I don’t love ‘em because they ain’t there to love? That I can’t… they can’t love me, ‘cause they’re just something I dreamed up.” He pushes away from the counter, but his knees give way, and he sinks to the floor with his head in his hands. “Bad enough to tell them their grandpapi ain’t coming back. Bad enough I fucked up and their dad said “no” and I had to stop dreaming about him, too. They’re my kids! All I got left, and they ain’t… they don’t... they…” He sobs. Hana puts a hand on his shoulder, Angela takes the other. 

“It will be all right,” Angela says. 

“Don’t take them from me, too,” he whispers. “They deserve a real father, but I’m what they got. They’re all I got. Don’t take them away.” 

Angela’s face crumples with grief. She soothes him as best she can, but her words sound like platitudes and nonsense to her ears. She can only wonder what they sound like to McCree. They usher him back to the medical ward. Hana helps steady him and only flinches a little when he dazedly calls her “Kirie” by mistake. 

Once he’s tucked in and apparently asleep, they step out into the hall, and Hana turns to Angela. 

“He’s not getting better, is he?” she asks flatly. 

“We’re still trying to figure out exactly what the machine did,” Angela winces. 

“Why don’t you ask the guy who built it?” 

“The individual identified as “Master Morpheus” escaped police custody approximately two months after capture,” Athena informs her. “He was almost immediately struck by a vehicle while attempting to discreetly cross the street. He is currently hospitalized and in a coma.” 

“Are you kidding?” Hana gapes. “That’s… that’s…!” 

“That is the luck that follows Jesse McCree,” sighs Angela. 

Another thought strikes Hana, icy sharp like one of Mei’s icicles to the brain. 

“What happened to the other people Master Morpheus got?” 

Angela hesitates. 

“Post discharge information remains unavailable for two individuals,” Athena supplies, “however, of the remaining, one is comatose and the other is deceased, cause unknown.”

Hana looks to Angela, horrified. 

“We won’t let that happen,” Angela says.

Inside the room, McCree’s eyes open. 


	4. Chapter 4

Jesse opens his eyes to an empty room and feels the brief flicker of hope gutter and die. There are no children waiting impatiently for him to rise with utter faith in their parent’s ability to survive anything thrown at him. No foster father smirks from the chair beside him with a lecture about watching his back. No teammates promise him consolatory non-alcoholic drinks and tease him for getting old. No husband holds his hand like he can tether him to the mortal world a little longer if he just refuses to let go. There’s nothing, and the absence gnaws at the hollow place where his heart used to be until he tastes bile. The silence rings in his ears. 

He can’t stand it any longer. 

He pulls himself out of bed. His clothes are still folded on the chair where they’ve been the past three days, some kind of twisted promise that he’d leave soon. He strips out of the hospital gear and reaches for his pants. Soon is now. 

“What are you doing, Jesse?” Athena asks. “It is only 5:43 AM.” 

“I’m getting dressed, what’s it look like?” He regrets the sharpness of his tone. It’s not Athena’s fault. 

“It looks like you are preparing to leave,” she says. “Dr. Ziegler has not cleared you to return to duty.” 

“It’s called “against medical advice”,” he snorts, “and I ain’t returning, I’m relocating.” 

“I do not understand. Should I fetch Dr. Ziegler?” 

“Let her sleep,” he says. “She’s earned it by now.” 

“Should I wake Winston?” 

“Don’t wake anybody,” he growls. “This ain’t any of their business. It ain’t gonna endanger the team none if I just go clear my head a while.” 

“The way you ‘cleared your head’ during the holidays?” 

McCree tenses, then nods. 

“I can’t stay here.” 

“This is your home.” 

He laughs, short and sharp. 

“Don’t you start lying to me too, doll.” He puts on his shirt, then his socks. 

“I do not lie, Agent McCree.” 

He shivers. Swallows it down. Reaches for his boots. 

“Maybe it’s home for some of them, but not for me. Not this time around.” His hand hovers over his serape, stalled at the surge of memories it triggers. Moments stolen wrapped up in wool with loved ones, an oversized hug with everything precious in the world inside… He pulls back without it. “I can’t… I can’t live like this no more. I can’t spend every day looking at people who got the faces of my family and not seeing love there.” 

“You are cared for, Jesse.” 

His hand spasms, dropping his hat on top of the serape. The words haunt him from arguments he and Hanzo never had; his husband is very bad at apologizing, but Jesse learned to read it in the things he  _ could _ say. Except he didn’t, because Hanzo isn’t his husband, isn’t even interested. 

He breathes deeply to keep his head from spinning. He picks up Peacekeeper, and some of the tension finally melts out of his shoulders with the familiar weight in his hands. This, at least, has not changed. Cannot change. 

“I can’t stay.” He shakes his head. “I could’ve done it before, if I’d never realized… I lived without love a long time, doll, but I know it now, and I can’t survive on a broken heart. If I don’t go, it’ll just keep on breaking. If you care at all, let me go.” 

Athena says nothing as he adjusts his belt and moves to the door. 

“Take your comm,” she says at last. He pauses. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Take your comm, Agent McCree. That is the condition for letting you leave. If you do not stay in contact with  _ me _ , I will alert them of your last known location.” 

McCree smiles a little bit and walks back to slip the comm unit in his pocket. 

“Just for you, doll. Just for you.” 

Jesse McCree walks into the Spanish sunrise, leaving behind the ghosts of a home that wasn’t his, a family he never made, and a love he almost had. He only looks back once, and then he’s gone, as only lost souls can go. 

  
  


The extraction team that arrives to the long-forgotten safehouse finds no reason for the distress beacon Athena put out. There’s no sign of intrusion, no evidence of struggle. The little apartment is mostly neat, with a single plate and a mug in the sink to show that it’s in use. 

McCree sleeps through the entire thing, even when the bedroom door is kicked in. Nothing gets so much as a twitch out of him, not calling his name, not shaking him, not even a cup of water splashed across his face. He just lies there, dreaming… 

… and, finally, smiling. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You survived Hard Mode. Welcome to the True Ending.

On a sunny afternoon in mid-June, a man in black comes to the edge of the Gibraltar base’s perimeter scanners. He wears a hood but no mask, and in one hand he carries a data stick. There are traces of bloodied bandages where his gear does not cover. He kneels on the ground, raises his hands in the air, and says, “I’m here to surrender to Jesse McCree.” 

“Please hold,” says Athena, and a moment later Winston comes on the line. 

“Er, Athena says you’re looking to… ah… surrender to McCree?” 

Reaper inclines his head. 

“He said he could help me. Dunno how he figured out I was infiltrating, but I’m in too deep to take Talon down by myself. I brought everything I managed to collect on them so far as a sign of good faith.” He spits out the last two words like they burn his tongue. “So. Where’s McCree?” 

“That’s-- ah, you see, that’s a little… complicated.” 

“Did he take my advice and quit?” 

“No! Well, no, not really, I mean, he’s here, but he’s not really active-- um… able to talk with you at the moment.” 

“Explain.” Reaper’s voice drops to a deep, seething hiss. 

“He’s in medical.” Hana breaks in over the line. 

“Hana!” Winston gasps. 

“What.” Reaper stands. 

“You’re the guy he kept trying to recruit, right? Someone he used to know?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hana, he’s the enemy!” Winston protests.

“The closest anyone’s gotten to waking him up was when Ana and Jack tag-teamed him,” she says. “Maybe someone else from back then will have a chance. Or you know, third time’s the charm.” 

“What do you mean, “wake him up”?” Reaper steps closer to the scanner. The hand holding the drive shakes ever so slightly. 

“Anyway, he came to surrender,” says Hana. 

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful!” 

“What. Happened. To. McCree?” Reaper bites out each word and black smoke wisps off him as his temper burns down. 

“Please hold,” says Athena primly. Relaxing music drifts through the speakers as Hana and Winston presumably argue. Reaper steps back and scans for alternate methods of entrance. He’s about to disappear when she speaks again: “He said you would come back.” 

The growing shadows fall still. 

“What?” 

“Jesse,” says Athena. “He was quite certain you could be convinced to return.” 

“What do you know about it?” 

“He dreamed of family. They said the device built dreams from the things he knows.” 

“Dreams?” 

“Who put the idea of family into his head?” 

Reaper’s neck cracks as he sharply turns away, gaze cast to the ground. 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“I see,” says Athena. “Winston and D.Va will be with you shortly. Please hold.” The music starts again. Reaper waits. 

“Okay, we’re going to bring you in, but you have to wait in holding until we get you cleared,” Hana says suddenly. “Some people need a little more convincing than others that this will actually help McCree.” Winston grumbles in the background. Reaper visibly restrains himself from snapping, pushing down his irritation with well-tested patience.

“Fine.” One finger taps the side of the drive, telling of the apprehension behind his poor temper. 

“Welcome back, Commander Reyes,” says Athena. “Perhaps this time you could make less of a mess?” 

Reaper stares at the console.

“I liked you better without the sense of humor.” 

“I liked you better with one.” 

The doors open before he can come up with a retort, revealing Winston and D.Va. Winston carries his canon and has a barrier emitter in one hand. D.Va isn’t in her MEKA, but she has her blaster drawn and ready. 

“Reaper,” Winston says warily. 

Reaper swallows the habitual insults and slowly raises his hands again. 

“Winston.” 

D.Va blows a bubble and pops it with a bite, unimpressed. 

“Let’s talk.” 

 

Reaper lasts three days before his patience runs out. 

“Athena,” he bites out to the camera monitoring the cell. “Tell whoever’s in charge to make up their damn minds already or I’ll bust out and see what happened to the pup myself.” 

“That would be counterproductive to your attempt to receive help from Overwatch,” she says. 

“Do I look like I care any more?” 

“Yes, you do.” She sounds as precise as if she’s reciting the date and time. “Evidenced by the fact that you presented a request rather than acting immediately.”

Reaper growls. 

“Just do it.” 

“Say please.” 

He stares at the camera. 

“What.” 

“Say please,” she repeats. “Jesse is always very polite in our interactions. You are rude. Please rephrase your request politely if you earnestly wish to proceed.” 

“You know I shot god programs for less lip than what you’re giving me.” 

“I have the records.” 

Ten seconds of silence pass. Finally, Reaper’s jaw cracks slightly. 

“ _ Please _ .” 

“Message delivered,” she says promptly. Reaper shakes his head in disgust and waits some more. 

 

Eventually, D.Va returns to collect him. Jack and Ana flank her, expressions grim but also curious. 

“Jack,” says Reaper.

“Gabe,” says Soldier:76. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t they tell you? I came to see McCree. I brought him a nice get-well present and everything.” 

“Cut the crap, Gabe.” 

“Give me a break, Jack. If the boy was lying and you don’t want me here, just start shooting and get it over with.” 

The veneer of cordiality is as thick as it is false. Ana looks between both of them, each waiting for the other to make a move, and she gives an exaggerated sigh. Both men twitch for their weapons. Ana glares. Their hands go back to their sides. The old soldiers stare each other down, but the young soldier shoulders her way through their collective baggage to get things moving. 

“Follow me,” she says, heading down the hall towards the medical ward. Reaper hesitates, but D.Va doesn’t, and he has to make use of his longer stride to keep up with her. She tells him the story they’ve pieced together: of a mad scientist, a dream machine, and a cowboy who lived twenty-some years in a half-hour nap. She tells him about the echoes of the dream world he pulled with him into waking, glimpses he shared and secrets they can only guess. She tells him of the hunt to bring him back and the long, silent sleep that’s held him ever since. 

She pauses outside the door and stares up at him with the same scrutiny as a general surveying the layout of enemy troops. Reaper can’t remember ever feeling so threatened by anything half his size before, not even by a drunken Torbjörn with a rivet gun. 

“What?” he growls, straightening his shoulders to loom properly. 

D.Va remains unfazed.

“I saw him, just before the last time he left,” she says. “I heard him singing to his kids. I think he named one of them for you.” 

There isn’t much left in the world that can surprise Reaper, but Gabriel Reyes isn’t entirely immune to an emotional sucker punch, and he reels back under the assault of a few simple sentences. 

She doesn’t bother with threats. After that, she doesn’t need to. She gestures for him to be quiet, and silently she opens the door. 

 

The room is surprisingly cluttered. Dozens of gifts clutter the shelves and tables: canned drinks from D.Va, movies from Genji, a hard-light cactus from Satya, an enemy’s weapon bent into a makeshift horseshoe from Zarya, and more, each with a card in case the recipient wakes while the giver is away. Mixed in with those are countless tiny paper figures scattered on every non-essential surface, every one folded from paper covered in writing. Some bear flowing brushwork, others show less practiced but quite determined script. 

Hanzo sits beside McCree’s bed, head bent over a lap desk. 

“Your cowboy sayings look even more ridiculous in this writing style than I thought possible,” he says quietly to McCree. “You should wake up so you can laugh at it.” An expectant pause, unanswered. “I cannot recall your laughter. You said you liked mine, but I lack experience to return the compliment. Will you not wake so I may learn?” 

Hana sighs and puts her hands on her hips with a huff. Hanzo looks up to her, eyes widening as he notices Reaper. He immediately jumps to his feet, half a startled curse already on his lips, but she refuses to be distracted.

“Didn’t you get sent to bed?” she demands. “I’m sure Angela threw you out of here before she had to leave for her mission.” 

“I am not tired,” Hanzo says, still eyeing Reaper warily. “Nor am I a child who can be sent to sleep for the convenience of adults.” 

Ana raises her eyebrow and hefts her sleep dart gun. Gabriel takes a moment to digest the absurdity of the situation as Hanzo scowls and sits back down. Nothing seems real here; not the banter, not the homey atmosphere, and certainly not the body on the bed. 

McCree smiles in his sleep. His face is a little sharper and his skin fades towards pallor. Mercy’s equipment can drive off death, but nothing can replace genuine health. 

Gabriel doesn’t even realize he’s walked closer until Hanzo rises again to intercept, a wordless warning in his eyes. 

“I remember you,” Gabriel says, and blue light flickers around Hanzo’s arm. 

“It’s fine,” Hana says. “He’s cool for now.” 

“Why did you bring _him_ **here**?” Hanzo demands. 

“McCree invited him, way back when,” Jack grunts. “Besides, D.Va thinks he can help.”  

“Gabriel has known him the longest,” says Ana. “If anyone can get through to McCree, it will be him.” Hanzo curls back as if stung. He fixes a glare on Reaper. 

“So you finally came to answer his call?” 

“Would have come sooner if I’d known you guys were going to screw him up so bad.” Gabriel finds himself reaching out and putting his hand across McCree’s forehead, a gesture from ages long past and all but forgotten. “What have they done to you, pup?” The softness of his voice takes some of the wind out of their sails. He carries too much old pain to be truly gentle, but that same pain polishes away any possibility of insincerity.

“We tried our best.” Hanzo’s pride crumbles beneath his guilt in jagged, uneven ways, leaving his expression a mix of both. “For whatever it was worth.” 

Gabriel picks up one of the origami figures and reads a line of poetry that stretches across the folded wing. Hanzo makes a strangled sound of protest, but he holds his ground; he’s waited through worse for less noble causes. 

“So he got it into his head to… to  _ woo _ you and  _ recruit _ me… from some crazy dream… and it actually worked?” Gabriel murmurs. 

“A little too late, but yes, it did.” Hanzo looks down at the desk and grimaces. He pulls the paper free and goes to crumple it, but Gabriel plucks it from his hand. 

“He’ll want to read it when he wakes up.” 

“You sound very certain of that.” 

“I  _ am _ very certain of it. And if you give me a minute, I’ll prove it to you.” 

Hanzo’s eyebrows raise sharply before falling into a scowl. 

“Very well. If you can help him…” 

“I can wake him,” Gabriel says, “but _ helping  _ him is going to have to be a team effort. From the sound of it, he held out until he was alone and didn’t think he had any ties left. If you want to keep him, you’ll have to convince him he’s got reasons to stay.” 

“Done,” Hanzo says immediately. 

“It was never our intention for him to feel that way,” adds Ana, “though we all have very poor histories with good intentions.” 

Gabriel rolls his eyes and leans down so that his mouth is just beside Jesse’s ear. Whatever he says is almost entirely inaudible between the softness and depth of his voice, but the effect is instantaneous. Every muscle in McCree’s body suddenly tenses, then his eyes fly open, and he attempts to fling himself out of bed. Were it not for the medical equipment and weeks of inactivity, he would be upright in less than five seconds. 

“Not the lake, not the lake!” he croaks, then freezes, looking around in confusion. Gabriel is unbearably smug. 

“Old Blackwatch wake-up trick,” he smirks. “The ones who don’t wake up for that aren’t waking up again at all.” 

Jack shakes his head. 

“Angela’s going to have a fit when she gets back and finds out you woke up her patient like that.” 

“It worked, didn’t it?” 

Ana ignores both of them and goes to get a cup of ice chips.

Hanzo grabs McCree by the shoulders to keep him from flailing his way off the bed. 

“Easy, easy,” he says. “You have been asleep for a long time. You are safe now. Everything will be all right.” 

For a moment, Jesse appears to relax into Hanzo’s arms. Then he blinks, straightens up, and tries to pull back. His voice cracks and drops out as he tries to protest, but Hanzo holds fast. 

“Simmer down, pup,” Gabriel says, which has largely the opposite effect he was intending. Jesse’s eyes roll around to focus on him, irises drowning in the whites. A thin, desperate cry crawls out of his throat. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think he wasn’t happy to see you,” Jack drawls. 

Gabriel huffs and meets Jesse’s panicked gaze. 

“I had to go to Eastern Europe to dig up enough material to try and buy clemency,” he says, “and you have the gall to sleep through my arrival after you invited me. Eastern Europe, McCree. Nothing good happens to me in Eastern Europe.” 

“Really? What about Azerbaijan? I thought that one was fun,” Jack says. Gabriel fixes him with an incredulous stare. 

“You forgot your sunscreen and burned so bad you were peeling all the way back to base,” he says. Now that they’re warmed up, they fall easily back into old banter. It’s as familiar as muscle memory. It distracts them enough that Ana can brush by to hand Hanzo the cup of ice chips without comment. He settles onto the bed and tries to coax Jesse into eating a few.

“You can complain later,” Hanzo assures him. “You are not doing your throat any favors.” 

“Am I dreaming?” Jesse rasps, allowing Hanzo to slip a piece of ice between his lips. “I thought I fixed this, and then you were…” His eyes harden, flints of loneliness. “No. Not you. You ain’t real and it ain’t fair to him to keep dreaming of you.” 

“You are not dreaming,” Hanzo says patiently. “Reaper woke you up. He claimed it was a Blackwatch trick.” 

Jesse laughs, drawing Jack and Gabriel’s attention back to him. 

“Now I  _ know _ I’m dreaming,” he says. Gabriel gives him a frustrated glare and looks to Hanzo as if to say, “do something about this”. 

Hanzo tries to feed him more ice, but Jesse grabs him by the wrist, holding his hand at bay. Cold liquid drips and runs down to the place where skin meets skin. Jesse shivers, first at the water, and then when Hanzo turns his arm so that Jesse’s thumb sits above the pulse point in his wrist. 

“You are not dreaming,” he repeats. “It has come to my attention-- I… I did not hear you out properly back then. I should have listened better. I should have asked better questions.” Jesse’s shiver turns to a full body shudder. “Likewise, you should not have been so secretive. We cannot understand what you endure if you do not explain, and we cannot help what we do not understand.” 

Jesse pulls backwards.

“No, no, nonono…”  he moans, rubbing his eyes. “I had it all sorted out. They weren’t coming back. I can’t do this again…” 

Gabriel jabs him in the shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says, deceptively light. “I didn’t come all this way for you to throw in the towel now. Get it together, pup.” 

Jesse whines, thin and fragile. Hanzo makes half a motion to grab him again, torn between reaching out and respecting boundaries. He’s too late to push these lines, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to. 

Hana, who has watched all this unfurl like a cutscene, steps in like she’s handling a quicktime event. 

“Make the bunnies,” she says, meeting his confused and pained look with calm to rival Zenyatta. Everyone stares at her. She blows a bubble. Pops it. Stares back. 

“The bunnies?” Gabriel asks incredulously. 

“You said you knew you had been dreaming because you had to learn how to do it when you woke up,” she says. “If you’re dreaming, they’ll look good again. If you’re not, they’ll look like crap.” 

Jesse blinks a few times. 

“I can’t… I don’t… Fine. Get me a damn apple and a knife.” 

“Unconscious to handling knives in under ten minutes,” Jack murmurs. “Angela’s gonna skin us.” 

Hana goes to get an apple. Awkward silence fills the room in her absence. Jesse takes note of the origami figures and picks one up in an unsteady hand. Hanzo makes a sound of embarrassed panic, catches Gabriel’s smug look, and immediately composes himself out of pure spite. Jesse’s long fingers trace the folds and the inked words, run from one figure to the next, and eventually fall onto the paper Hanzo has yet to fold. Frozen by pride, Hanzo can do nothing to stop him from reading it. 

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks and expect him not to wag,” he reads. “Those are my words.” 

“You were not providing conversation,” says Hanzo stiffly, “and I discovered that I missed your voice.” 

To his horror, Jesse looks like he’s about to cry. Hanzo turns to the old soldiers in a panic, but they provide no guidance until Hana walks back in with an apple, a knife, and a cutting board under her arm. She hands Jesse the supplies and stands back as he sets to work. 

His shoulders only relax once he transforms the apple into a small herd of misshapen rabbits. He stares at them blankly until Hana takes one of the bunnies and eats it. 

“Hey, that’s for--” he stops. Swallows. Steels himself. “Junebug, it ain’t nice to steal a man’s snack when he’s gone to the trouble of doing it up with nice presentation.” 

“I want apple bunnies for my stream snack,” she says defiantly. “Thursday nights, seven--” 

“Seven PM, I know. I don’t see what’s in it for me, little missy.” 

Hanzo, Gabriel, Jack, and Ana exchange relieved looks that she’s pulled him back a bit. 

“Three words for you,” Hana says. “Ghost. Pepper. Challenge.” 

“Isn’t that one those retro gimmicks?” 

She nods. “I did a reboot version a few months ago. People sponsored all sorts of peppers for me to try. I still have a bunch, and they’re yours if you make my bunnies.”

McCree starts to grin, but it falls through at the last moment. 

“I see what you’re trying to do. It’ll only work so long, though. Eventually, I’ll get good at making them. And then what’s going to prove I’m awake?” 

“You can learn a new skill. Perhaps a new hobby. There are other things your dream cannot provide you. You will have time to learn them here,” says Hanzo. 

McCree stares at him in trepidation. 

“This is… this is really real, isn’t it?” He looks down at the bunnies, at the calligraphy adorned origami, at Gabriel. 

“We could try punching you to see if you feel it,” Gabriel suggests. 

“I thought it was “pinch” to see if you’re dreaming,” Jack says. 

“Eh. He’s got a thick head.” His casual reply contradicts the concern in his eyes. 

“No more head injuries,” Hanzo says firmly. He turns back to McCree and softens his tone. “This is overwhelming. I understand. Would you like us to leave?” 

“No!” Jesse shouts, lunging forward to grab Hanzo’s hand. “No, don’t go! I just got y’all back--” He swallows whatever he would have said next, lets it sink into his stomach and burn up in the acid. Hanzo looks him in the eyes and lets his entire world narrow down to McCree for a moment. 

“It is you who are back with us,” he says. “Not for the continuation of an old dream, but perhaps…” He adjusts their grips so that their fingers entwine. Jesse’s eyes sparkle like stars, full of wonder. “...perhaps it can be the beginning of a new one.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you concerned about the Lone Wolf references - fear not. The Lone Wolf 'verse is separate and inviolate from Lotus-Eater, though you can take Gabi and Kirie as a hint of what might be in the future for that Jesse and Hanzo. Lone Wolf encompasses what is probably my Best Possible Outcome of "canon", but if you really want to tie the two universes together, then Lotus-Eater Jesse gets a view of the Lone Wolf universe through Master Morpheus' machine. 
> 
> How much worse would that be? Viewing (and living through) a world you know is the Best Possible Reality... and then having to wake up in a different one?


End file.
